


Whatever You Say, Boss

by Forestwater



Series: The Creatively-Titled Camp Camp AU Collection [1]
Category: Camp Camp (Web Series)
Genre: F/M, I was hired to kill you but you're pretty cute AU, the crime au nobody asked for, totally not a FAHC ripoff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2018-11-18 03:56:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11283270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Forestwater/pseuds/Forestwater
Summary: Campbell's crew was legendary. And she'd heard stories of his closest associates.The strange old man who'd had a million-dollar bounty on his head for the last 21 years, who with a bad eye and a missing hand was somehow unkillable.The little boy who always seemed to be in the right place at the right time and for not a second longer. He'd never been identified successfully, so everyone called him Ghost.The bodyguard who stayed plastered to Campbell's side, who never seemed to speak. Gwen had laughed when she'd first heard he was known as the Platypus, but no one else had.And David Ethan Greenwood. Davey to his friends.Gwen Santos had been following him for three days, and she still didn't know why anyone would bother paying to kill him.





	1. Merc

**Author's Note:**

> I have about 30 AU prompts I've been working on in conjunction with Tigger & Eeyore, so I thought I might as well share them in celebration of the new season. 
> 
> This one is based off of the prompt "I was hired to kill you but you're pretty cute."
> 
> Resemblances to the Fake AH Crew AUniverse are totally intentional and utterly shameless.

She'd been following him for three days, and she still didn't know why anyone would bother paying to kill him.

Hell, he'd almost done her job for her at least twice. First he'd tripped over his feet and nearly catapulted himself down a set of stairs, only managing to catch himself by clinging to the railing and scrabbling against the wall with his feet like an overturned bug. Barely ten minutes later he'd rushed into traffic to rescue a pigeon that didn't seem able to fly; he'd then sat down on the sidewalk and fed it scraps of his lunch for almost half an hour until it hopped away.

Gwen pushed up her sunglasses, leaning against the side of a bus stop and flipping through her notes. _Possible informant,_ she'd been told. _Strong connections to Campbell. Regularly seen with high-level CC associates. Function unknown._

She didn't make it a habit to familiarize herself with the gangs in Lilac; mercenaries who played favorites didn't stick around long, and in general the less she knew the better. But it was hard to avoid Cameron Campbell's crew, they were everywhere; they'd all but locked down the drug and weapons markets for the entire city — and according to rumors, most of the eastern seaboard. (Fuck, the gun in her jacket pocket had come from Campbell's people.)

And she'd heard stories about his closest associates.

The strange old man who'd had a million-dollar bounty on his head for the last twenty-one years, who with a bad eye and a missing hand was somehow unkillable. (Gwen herself had taken a shot at the bounty when she'd first moved to the city, young(er) and cocky and fresh off a heist that had left her armed to the teeth. She'd escaped with a broken wrist, some cracked ribs, and a scar that sliced through her left nostril and twisted her lips into a permanent snarl.) Hook was Campbell's right-hand man, had been since the explosive birth of the crew.

The little boy who always seemed to be in the right place at the right time and not for a second longer; if there was a heist or shootout, inevitably it would come out that someone had noticed a child wandering around just a few hours earlier. No one could ever say what he'd _done_ , exactly, but he was always there and then gone just as fast: a flash of golden hair, a bright neon jacket and light-up shoes. And yet he'd never been identified successfully, in pictures or lineups or security cameras (the eye was drawn immediately to those clothes), so everyone called him Ghost.

The bodyguard who stayed plastered to Campbell's side, who never seemed to speak — no one knew if he even _could_ — and whose eyes were always hidden by locks of mangy brown hair, except for a beak-like nose that overwhelmed the rest of his face. Gwen had laughed when she'd first heard he was known as the Platypus, but no one else had; stone-faced, she'd been told that he hid poisoned spikes on him at all times, and that a kick from him would leave her writhing in agony and fevered delirium for days after — _if_ she was lucky.

And Davey.

David Ethan Greenwood, the only member of Campbell's crew that was a complete mystery. And yet everyone knew his name, his face, the daycare he worked at . . .

He was so vulnerable, exposed, yet the other gangs didn't seem to touch him. Gwen had asked around when she got the assignment, and none of her contacts had ever had a hit on the kid. As far as anyone knew, he'd never been marked for kidnapping or as a hostage, not even a mugging. For all anyone knew he had nothing to do with the crew. No police record (not even as an eyewitness), nothing except for the fact that he was just sometimes _there_ , chatting with Hook or playing cards with Platypus in one of the CC-owned bars. More than anything he seemed like Campbell's dog, bounding along at his side with stars in his eyes, feeding the man's ego with unconditional adoration.

No one knew what information Greenwood had about the crew. No one knew why they had anything to do with him, or he with them. And when she'd pressed them, no one knew what caused that invisible halo around him that kept him untouched, why such an obvious victim had never been victimized.

Gwen didn't know, and she didn't particularly care. She just knew that his head was worth $10,000, and she could do a hell of a lot with that money.

She glanced at her watch. It was just after 6 p.m., and Greenwood was predictable as the sun: said goodbye to the children at 4:30, locked up the daycare at 5, and took a long, meandering path along the trash-strewn shore of Lake Lilac, watching the sunset before hopping on the bus home, taking the stop about twenty feet away from where she stood.

And there he was. He waved at the bus driver like he did every day, then hurried into the corner store across the street to pick up ingredients for dinner.

It was convenient, his routine. And astoundingly stupid. It was like he _wanted_ to be killed.

Once he was in the store, she abandoned her position and strolled into the small courtyard between his apartment building and the townhouse next door. Pretending to admire the flowers — which she'd watched David lovingly tend each morning before work — she waited until the street was clear, then vaulted over the chain-link fence and slipped in through the never-locked back window.

Campbell treated his pets well, Gwen had to admit as she picked the lock to apartment 2A. This certainly wasn't the swankiest part of Lilac, but it was far nicer than a glorified babysitter should be able to afford. Especially _this_ glorified babysitter, who she'd once seen give money to 8 different hobos on his walk home. And then when he was out of change, he handed the 9th his sweatshirt!

 _Must be nice_ , she thought, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. His apartment was clean and relatively bare, knitted afghans and embroidered pillows splashing color on the ultra-modern furniture. Resisting the temptation to snoop through the rest of the apartment — Greenwood would be home in 5 minutes and 20 seconds — she settled against the wall next to the door, pulling out her gun and inspecting it thoughtfully.

She was a fan of guns, as a general rule. They didn't require much athleticism, and there was something elegant about being able to pinpoint a spot on someone's body and with a flick of her finger watch it bloom into gore. But they were also loud and messy, and at close quarters more of a hindrance than a help. With a disappointed sigh, she put it away and drew a knife from her sleeve. The gun had been more of a security blanket than anything, a comfort to make up for the fact that she'd had to leave her sniper at home. Without it she felt strangely naked.

Naked and way, _way_ too close to the target.

Gwen preferred to kill people from a safe distance. It was cleaner that way. But this apartment had no good stakeout points near any of the windows — she guessed Campbell had picked it for that very reason — and she tried to avoid taking targets out in public, partly because she wasn't the best sprinter and partly because concealing a gun as long as her arm was a lot harder when everyone in the vicinity was panicking and calling the police — or worse, allied gangs.

Her body tensed as she heard the sound of footsteps, humming, the jingling of keys in the lock.

There he was. Right on time.

The door swung open and she followed it, staying in the darkness until he was fully inside. The second the door closed, she threw herself forward, slamming him in the throat with her forearm and driving him against the wall with a dull _thud_. With her other hand she stuck the tip of her knife into his ribs, ignoring his weak, pained whimper. "Okay," she growled. "Someone wants you dead. Why?"

She should've just slit his throat. But she was curious.

Besides, no one had ever accused her of being good at her job.

Greenwood was breathing in short, desperate pants. For a second she thought he was trying to shake her off, but quickly realized he was just . . . shaking. "I — I don't — um —" He closed his eyes, his brow furrowing, and she let up on his neck enough so he could talk more easily. "I didn't say thank you to a waiter last week. Maybe I made them mad?"

She was used to targets insulting her, screaming, begging, crying. Rarely did they go for humor. "You think this is fucking _cute_ , you piece of shit? You get that I was paid to kill you, right?"

"N-no ma'am! This is a very un-cute situation!" He swallowed, a movement she could feel against her arm. "And while I know that you need to do your job, I-I hope maybe you could . . . m-maybe reconsider . . . I don't have _much_ money, but, well . . ."

Once again she couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic. She had to admit, it threw her off. "Christ, hold on," she muttered, ducking her head and shaking it to remember how she'd gotten into this situation and what she was supposed to do about it. It didn't help that he was staring at her with these wide green eyes and lightly flushed cheeks, his mouth falling open slightly as he struggled for breath. "I, you — _fuck_. . ."

This was why guns were better than knives.

"Ssssomeone wants to hurt me, right? And you want to know what I could've done to deserve it?"

She glanced up at him, incredulous. "Are you trying to _help_ me assassinate you?"

"I don't know!" he whined, flinching at the bite in her voice. "It's just, I, ah, know how annoying it is to lose your train of thought, and — and you seem like a nice lady, so . . ."

_"Nice?"_

"Given the circumstances," he clarified. "C-could I just —" Before she could stab him in the wrist, he reached over and flicked a switch, flooding the room with buttery light. "That's better!" he chirped with a smile, one that fell immediately when she hissed at the glare. "Oh, I'm sorry, ma'am, I should've warned you —" He drew his arm back, his watch catching on her arm with a pinch hard enough to draw blood; she winced but didn't pull back to inspect it. She'd looked like enough of an idiot so far, and the last thing she needed was for her target to think she was weak enough to be distracted by a little pinprick.

He stood patiently while her eyes adjusted. "Did you just _annoy_ Pikeman into wanting to kill you?" she muttered, more to herself than to him.

"Edward Pikeman? That's who asked you to . . . ?" He frowned. "I thought we were on good terms."

Gwen was uncomfortably aware of how much better she could see Greenwood now that the light was on. With a groan she pulled away, so suddenly he slumped back against the wall, and slipped her knife back into her sleeve (keeping her other hand on the gun, just in case). "How do you even know Campbell, anyway?"

He had his hands on his knees, taking relieved gulps of air. "He took me in when I was 9!" His expression turned hopeful. "Is . . . is that all you needed? Because I don't have a lot of information, but I'm sure he'd be happy to speak with you . . . Would you like some tea, ma'am?"

Yeah, this wasn't one of her finest performances. "No, no." She ran her free hand through her hair with a sigh, feeling like she was trying to capture her scattered thoughts with a butterfly net. "I'm gonna kill you, I'm gonna take my money, and I'm gonna get the fuck out of this fucking piece of shit _fuck_ town."

It was a good plan. A smart plan.

She just had to . . . well, _do_ it.

"Move and I shoot you," she muttered dully. _God_ , she had a headache, one that pounded through her skull and crowded at the corners of her eyes with each thudding heartbeat. In fact, it'd started to creep into her vision, a soft decaying blackness that . . .

She pulled her arm up, noticing that it moved with dreamlike slowness and left colorful trails in the air, and finally took a closer look at where he'd gotten her with his watch. A bead of blood wiped away to reveal a small round hole that looked remarkably like a bee sting.

Oh, for fuck's sake.

The son of a bitch had poisoned her.

The next (and last) things she was aware of were hands hauling her into a sitting position and Greenwood's voice: "I'm sorry, sorry! I didn't want to have to do that, but I promise you'll feel better when you wake up . . ."


	2. Kingpin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Wait. One more thing." She regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth — curiosity was what had gotten her into this situation, after all — but she had to know. "What does Greenwood even _do_ for you guys? Why is he here?"
> 
> "Let me ask you something instead: why are _you_ here?"

"She's pretty cute. But shit, she's stupid."

"That's not very nice, Jasper!"

Gwen kept her eyes closed and her breathing even, trying to figure out as much of her situation as possible without opening her eyes. She was sitting, arms behind her back and tied to a chair — she twisted her wrists experimentally — tied _securely_ to a chair. She fingered the knots as well as she could in that position, trying to see if they could be loosened at all.

"Fingers're movin. She's awake." The gruff voice came from behind her, and her blood chilled as she recognized the deep growl of Hook.

Which meant . . . Her head snapped up with a jerk.

 _Shit_.

"Hello, kiddo! Nice to finally meet you."

Directly across from her, slouched comfortably in a chair that mirrored her own, was a giant lion of a man with fluffy gray hair and a thick mustache. He was dressed like Indiana Jones or something, looking more ready to climb a mountain than organize the most ruthless band of criminals in the city. Hovering on either side of him were Greenwood and a boy in a gaudy neon T-shirt and patterned jeans. His head cocked to the side as he regarded her with amusement, some of his yellow hair flopping into his eyes.

She was probably one of the few people to get a good look at Ghost's face.

That didn't bode well for her chances of survival.

There was a hiss at her knee and she looked down, barely swallowing a yelp. A strange, small man crouched beside her chair, watching her with sharp black eyes. As she watched, he shifted closer, his matted hair tickling her bare calf, and rested one long-nailed hand on her leg. On the Platypus' index finger was a heavy ring that stretched into a long metal claw. It didn't _look_ poisonous, but as he tapped the spike against her knee, she imagined she could already feel her skin burning. Repressing a shiver, she returned her gaze to Campbell; no matter how scary his crew seemed, she had to remember who was the most dangerous person here.

Gwen hadn't been caught before, not by a gang, not by the police, and definitely not by a target. It wasn't a situation she particularly relished. Taking a deep breath, she lifted her chin and said, "Hi. I'd shake your hand, but . . ."

It was a cliche, but she didn't have a lot of time to think up a good line. Besides, the way Greenwood coughed and looked away, pressing his lips together to hide a smile, gave her a tiny surge of confidence.

Campbell laughed, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "It seems like you and my boy Davey had a bit of a fight. He's a good kid, but sometimes he can get a bit carried away." He spoke gently, smiling at her like he had no idea she'd broken into Greenwood's apartment to assassinate him. "Can never be too careful. I'm sure you understand that."

She decided the safest course was to say nothing, trying not to blink or fidget under Campbell's cool gaze.

After a moment he nodded, like she'd passed a test (or failed). Leaning back and turning to Greenwood and Ghost, he said, "Would you mind clearing out for a minute, boys? I'd like to speak with Ms. Hernandez —"

"Santos," Ghost interrupted.

"— alone."

Greenwood took the little boy's hand, leading him out of the room. Even though they didn't know each other, even though he'd knocked her unconscious and very well could've killed her, she felt a cold tickle of fear at being abandoned as he glanced back at her, smiling kindly over Hook's shoulder.

Then the door closed, and she was left alone. Or . . . nearly alone. "Um, what about . . . ?" It was stupid to question Campbell, especially when his extremely poisonous pet was tracing lazy swirls into her thigh, but it came out before she could stop herself.

"Ignore him." The old man gave her a charming, slightly crooked grin, and despite herself Gwen was relieved her complexion didn't blush easily. "So, you were hired to go after Davey, and he tells me the Woodscouts ordered the bounty."

If she'd been a crew member she would've kept silent, protecting her gang's secrets no matter what Campbell did to her. But she was a mercenary, and no one in their right mind expected loyalty from a hired hand. "They're obsessed with Greenwood, sir," she blurted out, cringing internally at the honorific. Who'd call a scumbag like this man "sir"?

Then again, she wasn't exactly on moral high ground here, either.

"Hmm." Campbell nodded, leaning his chin on his folded hands. "They're not the first, and probably not the last! But what interests me" — he leaned in closer, dropping his voice like they were co-conspirators — "is why they hired _you."_

She frowned, straightening on instinct. "I'm good." After a moment of silence, she sighed and added, "For my price."

"I agree. You're quite a bargain! $10,000 for that boy's life?" He shook his head with a chuckle. "I can't think of anyone who'd accept less than $25,000."

Those other mercenaries probably weren't desperately trying to maintain a lifestyle that convinced their parents everything was normal. "Sir, I have no information, I'm sure you already know that — I never saw where they're hiding, I didn't even see his face. Pikeman was just a name on a check." She looked down, surprised to be feeling embarrassed when she was almost certainly facing the last few minutes of her life. "So if you could just kill me quickly . . ."

Maybe she would've been better off becoming an accountant like her mom had wanted.

Campbell laughed again — what was this guy, fucking Santa Claus? — holding up his hands like she was going to strike him. "No, no, you've got it all wrong! I actually wanted to offer you a job." A business card appeared between his fingers, though Gwen couldn't see where it'd come from. At a nod from Campbell the Platypus began untying her hands, his spike grazing her fingers with each movement and making her twitch. Once freed, she leaned forward and took the card, which had a brief listing for a bodyguard and "specialist." Someone who specialized in . . . well, in a lot of violence, she figured, looking over the card with her mind buzzing a million miles an hour.

This wasn't a one-time gig. This was joining a crew. This was joining _Campbell's_ crew.

This was a steady salary, access to contacts and weapons she'd never dreamed of, the kinds of luxuries a 26-year-old college dropout couldn't imagine achieving on her own.

This was constant supervision and coordination, being the pet of a world-class scumbag, suddenly making enemies with every rival gang in the city. She wouldn't get to work alone anymore, pick jobs based on what sounds the most fun or has the biggest paycheck. She'd go from rogue badass to expendable henchman, doing the bidding of a crime lord with backup — _backup_ , Christ, what a joke — made up of a mute, a child, a cripple, and . . . Greenwood.

Whatever _he_ was.

"Why would you hire me?" she blurted out. "I failed."

"Yes, you did," Campbell agreed. "But you don't seriously think you're the first person who's gone after Davey, do you? Hell, that's how we found Jasper." At her blank look, he added, "I think you'd call him 'Ghost?' Clumsy, but what the boy's really good at is intelligence. And explosives — he likes those." Gwen stayed silent. "What I'm saying, Ms. Martinez, is that Davey has a talent for finding people who are . . . special. And he thinks you're worth keeping an eye on."

"So you're just gonna take the word of some guy who's never met me before?" This was hands-down the most ridiculous situation she'd ever found herself in. "Even though I could be a mole for Pikeman or a psychopath or incompetent or fucking  _anything_?"

"Of course not!" Campbell's laugh was indulgent, gentle. "But Jasper learned a lot about you while you were asleep —" (Gwen's head throbbed with the reminder that she'd definitely _not_ been asleep) "— and Quartermaster remembered you from your last encounter. Apparently you made an impression."

Gwen swallowed, trying to keep her mind clear. "What . . . what would I _do?_ "

"Well, first you'd work with some of our lower-profile members, get some training and figure out if you'll be a good fit with our organization." Campbell spoke like this was a regular job interview, like her feet weren't still tied to a chair and there wasn't a poison spike inches from her leg. "But we're looking for someone who can act as another set of eyes and ears. Davey takes good care of himself, but interest in him has been — well, _increasing_ over the last few months."

"You just . . . want me to follow Greenwood around and make sure no one tries to kill him?"

"It's something you'll be able to manage, I'm sure." This time his smile was a little mocking, and she realized that he had no illusions about her being special, that either he was humoring his adopted son or he was entertaining himself, and that the only reason she was alive was because a corrupt millionaire was fucking _bored_.

She tried to sit up straighter, to ignore the way the business card in her hands had started shaking. "And if I'm not a good _fit?"_

Campbell shrugged one shoulder, shaking his head like he couldn't believe she was bothering to ask. "We'll part ways, of course."

They both knew what that meant.

"But please, you haven't seen anything but an old room, Ms. Garcia. And there are ways to induce short-term memory loss, so if you'd like to forget some of the more . . . _sensitive_ things you've learned this evening, we can arrange for you to wake up back in your bed. You can forget everything here has happened."

Words couldn't express how little Gwen bought _that_ , but at the same time, she also trusted the look on Greenwood's face, the smile that said he wanted her to live.

"I'll do it." The sentence hurt more than she'd expected. It was giving away her freedom, her chance at a "normal" life, probably signed on for an early — well, _earlier_ — death on top of it all. She couldn't shake the skin-crawling feeling that she'd been tricked into selling her soul.

"Wonderful!" Campbell leaned forward, bending down and untying the knots at her feet like she couldn't break his nose with a well-placed kick. "I think you'll really enjoy it here, Ms. Lopez."

"Santos," she blurted out. If he was going to be signing her checks (metaphorically, at least) he'd better get the name right. "And, uh, it's Gwen."

He glanced up at her as he sat back, and she hated that she couldn't read his expression. "Lovely. Welcome aboard. If you'll step outside, Davey and Jasper will take care of you."

Right. She stood, trying not to wince as her abused muscles protested the sudden movement. "Wait. One more thing." She regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth — curiosity was what had gotten her into this situation, after all — but she had to know. Facing him again and putting her hands in her pockets in an attempt at nonchalance, she cocked her head to the side and asked, "What does Greenwood even _do_ for you guys? Why is he here?" There was no way she believed it was paternal affection keeping the kid around.

"Let me ask you something instead: why are _you_ here?"

The answer seemed fairly obvious — she enjoyed her skin, and wanted to hold onto it for as long as possible — but that didn't hold up, not completely. The odds of her living out the rest of the year weren't great, whether she took this job or not. Not to mention she'd fucked up once; another mistake would undoubtedly kill her, either at Campbell's hands or those of his enemies. Either action was a leap of blind faith.

And Campbell wasn't the one she was putting her faith in.

He smirked, like he could read the answer on her face. "You're not the first person to try and take out our boy, Ms. _Santos_ ," he murmured, his voice low and silky. "And you're not the first to change your mind." Nodding like that settled the matter, he climbed to his feet. "Now go, they're waiting." Feeling numb, she turned to leave. "Oh, and Glinda dear?" She glanced over her shoulder and he beamed. "Try to smile. A happy murderer is a scary murderer!" He chuckled at himself, heading toward the room's only other exit and beckoning for Platypus to follow.

No wonder she felt like she'd sold her soul.

If the Devil was real, she'd bet her life that he was the spitting image of Cameron Campbell.


	3. Boss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "David's the one you'll spend the most time with, but when he's at work tomorrow you'll be with me. Mr. Campbell's even gonna let me take you on the Getty job! It's pretty small-time, but I'm running it, which means we have 3 important goals: fuck shit up, explode _everything,_ and grab candy whenever you can. You _have_ done heists before, right? A tough merc like you?" And though Jasper's voice and expression didn't change, the questions seemed challenging, almost mocking.
> 
> But Gwen nodded and let him continue chatting about the details of the heist, talking about it like it was a picnic or something. She met Greenwood's eyes over the kid's head, hoping for a clue as to how much of this cheerful enthusiasm thing was an act and how much this kid just really liked blowing things up, and he just shrugged, shaking his head with a fond smile down at the boy.
> 
> Okay. So _everyone_ here was fucking crazy. Awesome.

Gwen hadn't even closed the heavy metal door behind her when she was knocked back against it, a pair of arms curling around around her and pinning her own arms to her sides. She thrashed against the surprisingly strong grip, but a distressed squeak stilled her. She rolled her eyes.

Oh, right. Her _client_.

"Mr. Greenwood," she said, trying to keep the edge out of her voice and barely remembering to tack on the honorific, "what are you doing?"

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to scare you!" He squeezed her with one last chest-crushing grasp then stepped back, settling his hands on her shoulders and giving her a wide grin. "I just wanted to congratulate you. Welcome to the family, Gwen!" His smile turned sly, his eyes sparkling in the dim light. "That's a nice name. _Much_ better than 'ma'am.'" He dropped his hands from her shoulders, but kept his fingers lightly curled around hers, tugging her gently down the hall, and while she was tempted to push him away, she figured she might as well start her job on a good — well, a slightly less-bad — foot.

Speaking of, was she supposed to apologize for trying to kill him? Reassure him that she really wouldn't do it again?

Ghost, or Jasper, or whoever, was waiting by the dull brass doors of an elevator, tapping at his phone with such intense concentration that it had to either be crime-related or a game of _Temple Run_. He glanced up as they approached, giving them a wide, innocent smile. "Hey, guys! Ready to go?" His voice was so light and happy — so thoroughly unlike what she'd heard from him in the interrogation room — that it sent a chill through her, because there was something cold and calculating about his grin.

No wonder nobody would dream of connecting this kid to Campbell's crew.

"David's the one you'll spend the most time with, but when he's at work tomorrow you'll be with me. Mr. Campbell's even gonna let me take you on the Getty job! It's pretty small-time, but I'm running it, which means we have 3 important goals: fuck shit up, explode _everything_ , and grab candy whenever you can. You _have_ done heists before, right? A tough merc like you?" And though his voice and expression didn't change, the questions seemed challenging, almost mocking.

But she nodded and let him continue chatting about the details of the heist, talking about it like it was a picnic or something. She met Greenwood's eyes over the kid's head, hoping for a clue as to how much of this cheerful enthusiasm thing was an act and how much this kid just _really liked_ blowing things up, and he just shrugged, shaking his head with a fond smile down at the boy.

Okay. So _everyone_ here was fucking crazy. Awesome.

They reached the ground floor — she had no idea if they'd come up or down, but it was a hell of a long trip — and the doors rattled open with a soft _bing_. "Oh, and here," Jasper said, pressing a smooth, shiny rectangle into her palm. "You'll get the details about tomorrow's job on this. Make sure you don't lose it, 'cause we'll have to destroy it after everything's done. Which is probably the best part of the whole thing!"

"Wait wait wait." Gwen turned the phone over in her hands; she didn't want to look like she was way in over her head, but she was pretty sure her eyes were bugging out of her head. "Your burner cells . . . are _iPhones_?"

Jasper shrugged. "Sure. What else would they be?"

So they were crazy, but ludicrously rich.

The fuck had she gotten herself into?

* * *

"This is so exciting!" Greenwood bounced on the balls of his feet as they strolled down the sidewalk toward his — _their_ — home. "I've never had a roommate before — I'm sorry there isn't a second bedroom, but I'm happy to sleep on the couch, and Jasper said he and the Quartermaster should be able to find us a bigger apartment in a few days. It'll be like a really long sleepover!"

Gwen nodded, torn between amusement and irritation. "Right. So, uh . . . about this." She'd never done the whole secret service thing before, but years of self-preservation (and no small amount of paranoia) kicked in, her mind whirring to life with ways to keep this idiot safe. "Obviously I'm on the couch, if someone comes after you they're way more likely to go through the front door. And the most important thing we need to do is establish a simple code — like a safe word, something easy to remember but you don't say in your day-to-day life, we can set your phone to autocorrect a single keystroke to it so you can send it even if you can't call — oh, and I need to be the first number on your speed dial, and this weekend I'm buying much better locks, because the ones you have are _way_ too easy to pick — and don't forget we need to reexamine your routes to and from work because your patterns are ridiculously predictable and I won't always be around, especially if Campbell keeps sending me on those missions with Jasper and the others and —"

"Gwen, Gwen!" Laughing, he held up his hands like he was fending her off. "I'm glad you're taking such good care of me, but please don't worry so much. I don't think any of this is really necessary — Lake Lilac is one of the safest cities I've ever lived in!"

She waited for a full ten seconds for him to snicker or give her any indication he was kidding, but his eyes were bright and sincere, his grin without a trace of irony. (She hadn't known people actually smiled like that in real life, like they were just _happy_ with nothing else complicating it.) "Where the fuck did you live before, Mr. Greenwood?"

He blushed all the way up to his hairline and down to the bandanna he kept tied around his neck. "Maybe we could talk about not using that kind of language?" When she just stared blankly at him — for a second she wasn't sure what he meant by language, and wondered if she'd accidentally started speaking Spanish or something — he shook his head, waving it away with one hand. "Never mind. More importantly, could you please call me David?"

Gwen's face was stony. "No."

He frowned. "Why not? We're roomies now, and I hope we'll be friends! It'll be . . . weird."

"It's policy." She didn't have many firm personal rules, but she considered this one important. Targets were called by their last name, if referred to at all; employers were "Mr." or "Ms." First names were for friends and family, and she didn't have many of those. It helped keep boundaries clear, and that was essential in a job like hers.

"Does that mean I need to call you Ms. Santos?"

She shrugged. "You're my boss. You can call me whatever you want."

"I guess I didn't . . . really think of it like that." For about half a block he was quiet, taking that information in. "Wait," he finally said, "but you called Jasper by his first name."

"I work _with_ him. I work _for_ you. There's a difference."

He was practically pouting. "As your boss, can I tell you I don't like it?"

"Would Sir be better?" (She hoped not. This situation was weird enough without her having to refer to the goofy, awkward man two years younger than her as "sir," like he was the goddamn President or something.)

"Ah — !" Again he turned pink, fiddling with his bandanna and looking away. "N-no, that's not necessary . . ."

Gwen smirked. "All right then, Mr. Greenwood. Now gimme your phone so I can start doing my job."


	4. Affectionate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwen narrowed her eyes at him. "Mr. Greenwood," she muttered, and he widened his eyes, shaking his head and looking around to make sure they hadn't been overheard. She sighed. " _David,_ then, fine. What happened back there?"
> 
> "Oh!" He chuckled nervously, running a hand through his hair. "Well, Mr. Campbell mentioned that you'd look less . . . less like an armed guard if we were more affectionate. And maybe people would be a bit — warmer. To you. If they . . . if they thought we were . . . _close._ And he felt it might seem more authentic if you didn't know it was going to happen."

After a while, she started to understand why Campbell kept Greenwood around.

"So what are we delivering?"

"I don't know."

Gwen glanced back at the box they had in the backseat. "Who's it going to?"

He shrugged, merging onto the highway and resting one hand on the back of her seat. "I don't know!"

"You really don't know _anything_ , do you?"

He laughed, shaking his head; she found that things that would've pissed her off just amused him, and not in a snarky, mocking way. He just . . . really didn't get bothered by much. "Nope! Mr. Campbell asked me to do him a favor and drive to this bakery, and of course I'm happy to help!"

Gwen had been spending almost every waking moment with this man for three months, and she still had no idea how aware he was of his "father's" operations. It was like someone had fashioned the very concept of plausible deniability into a person. Either he'd gotten very good at not asking questions, or he genuinely didn't think there were questions that needed to be asked.

It made her work more difficult, honestly. With someone this squeaky clean, she realized quickly that _she_ was the biggest threat to his credibility, which meant she had to scrub her record — with Jasper's help — and keep herself as far as possible from her old contacts. Campbell's salary had allowed for a new wardrobe, which was good because leather coats and sunglasses were suddenly very undesirable; they marked her as a mercenary, and so she'd spent several days trying to find sundresses and floaty blouses that both said "I am a harmless companion to this cinnamon roll of a man" and still kept her well-armed. (There were a lot more interesting weapon placements.)

She even had a "job," helping Greenwood at his stupid daycare. Despite having turned to a life of crime to _avoid_ this kind of touchy-feely bullshit, she suddenly found herself spending way too much time making sure her weapons were well out of reach of children — and it had taken about ten seconds to decide that a bunch of elementary schoolers were a far greater danger to her client's health than the most hardened assassin. The fact that he was still alive astounded her.

But it was more than his incorruptible innocence that made him valuable. As they parked outside Catalina Bakery and climbed out of the car, she watched with fascination as the employees and even some of the customers greeted them with a smile, walking up to Greenwood and ruffling his hair, patting him on the shoulder or back, even giving him a hug; and though she saw more than one barely-concealed weapon in a jacket or pants pocket, no one seemed to be a threat.

People _liked_ him, was the thing. With a crew made up of a caustic, fashion-challenged little kid and two terrifying monster men, it was useful to have someone who could get allies and dealers to smile.

And . . . well, it was hard _not_ to smile at Greenwood. He was just so _bright_ , with eyes you could see through when the light hit them, cloudy like sea glass most of the time; a rubbery Muppet face that couldn't hide a single emotion — she imagined him playing poker was endlessly entertaining — expressive hands and the inability to stay still. It was a strange combination of little kid and suburban dad that lowered people's guard instantly, won them over before they had a chance to be suspicious.

Gwen was starting to think this guy just might be the most valuable member of Campbell's crew. And he didn't even know he was in it!

Unfortunately, the effect was somewhat ruined by her presence. It wasn't her _fault,_ exactly; she'd never had the kind of life where being friendly and affectionate were good things, and while she could write convincing fiction about that kinda thing, somehow it never quite seemed to translate to real human beings. Something was always just the tiniest bit out of sync, like she'd learned the same choreography but was half a beat off from everyone else. So she spent embarrassing evenings practicing smiling in the bathroom mirror, trying to figure out what configuration of muscles caused Greenwood's eyes to crinkle at the corners like that, and how to tilt her head to look like she was really interested. But . . . well, she suspected it wasn't paying off, because while he made friends with strangers, there were always more than a few pairs of eyes on her that felt decidedly unfriendly.

Greenwood's arm landed heavily around her shoulders, pulling her to his side like she was a ragdoll, and it took all of her willpower not to jerk away on instinct.

This was off-book.

Gwen couldn't reach for the gun on her thigh like this, because it was now blocked by his leg; she couldn't get to the knife against her lower back or the one in her boot without having to squirm out of his grasp; she still had easy access to the cherry bomb in her giant, tacky locket, but still, everything about this was wrong and unfamiliar and _nothing_ like the plan she'd made sure to go over 3 times on the drive here.

"And this is Gwen!" he said, tightening his arm around her shoulders. "Honey, I don't think you've ever been here before, right?" Another tight squeeze: a warning. Her eyes flicked around the bakery, but she still didn't register any threats. Which meant . . .

Fuck, she didn't know _what_ it meant.

But she tried on her least-plastic smile and fixed her gaze to his, figuring she'd be more convincing the less she actually looked any of these strangers in the eye. "Nope! First time."

"That's why I was so excited to bring you here!" He turned to the small crowd, which was trickling away now that she'd been established as relatively harmless. "I've talked about your food so much she insisted we try some!"

Then he leaned in and gave her a quick peck on the cheek, pulling away instantly and turning bright red. And she was relieved her dark skin didn't give away her embarrassment, though her smile definitely wavered.

This was _very_ off-book.

After all of the hand-shaking and fawning over Greenwood was over, they settled down in a booth near the back with their food. "So," he said after a moment, keeping his voice low but pleasant, "now we just wait for our car." This was a familiar procedure; they'd drive somewhere with a car Campbell had given them (smuggling who-knew-what in the back), go somewhere and let Greenwood work his unconscious magic, and in an hour or two they'd be approached by a stranger and given a pair of keys to a brand-new car, which they'd drive home like it was the one they'd arrived in.

 _That_ was all part of the plan.

Gwen narrowed her eyes at him. "Mr. Greenwood," she muttered, and he widened his eyes, shaking his head and looking around to make sure they hadn't been overheard. She sighed. " _David_ , then, fine. What happened back there?"

"Oh!" He chuckled nervously, running a hand through his hair. "Well, Mr. Campbell mentioned that you'd look less . . . less like an armed guard if we were more affectionate. And maybe people would be a bit — warmer. To you. If they . . . if they thought we were . . . _close_. And he felt it might seem more authentic if you didn't know it was going to happen."

That sounded like Campbell, all right. Down to the (very justified) lack of faith in her acting skills. Hell, he probably enjoyed the idea of her being thrown off, too. Probably thought it was real fucking funny.

Sometimes she still couldn't believe she worked for that son of a bitch.

Greenwood seemed to take her irritation for anger at _him_ , because he held up his hands in apology. "I-I mean that's just what he told me! I think you're very nice to be around and see you as a friend not just a bodyguard so I'm not re-really sure where he was coming from, but I like to do what he says because he always knows best and it's his job after all and —"

"Mr. Gr — David. It's fine. Mr. Campbell was right." She didn't enjoy admitting it, but it was almost clever. And more impressively, it'd seemed to work; no one had even glanced at them since they sat down.

"Oh, good!" His shoulders slumped with relief and his grin returned, a little wider and accompanied by a dusting of pink on his freckled cheeks. "I was so worried you'd be mad! I almost told you about it so many times on the drive up. Though," he added, leaning in and dropping his voice conspiratorially, "I'm glad this means you'll have to say my real name, _Ms. Santos_."

"Don't push it, _sir_ ," she shot back, smirking as he jerked away like she'd kicked him. She knew it made him uncomfortable, and as his employee she tried not to take advantage of that, but . . . well, for the next thirty-five minutes or so she wasn't _allowed_ to be his employee. So she might as well have a little fun before she went back on the clock.

Greenwood laughed, taking a sip from his steaming mug. (He always insisted on drinking hot tea when they were out, even on days like today when the weather was almost in the triple digits.) "Don't worry. I know better than to do that, Gwen."

* * *

She wasn't sure when "David" started sliding off her tongue easier than "Greenwood." She wasn't sure when it became automatic to settle in under his arm, one around his waist and her other hand resting near the gun at her hip. Or when her gig at the day care started feeling more her real job than a front, or when waking up to him sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of tea and two plates of toast became comfortable.

She wasn't sure when their routine became domestic. But she was instantly aware of the second when it became _not_.

They hadn't had much to do with Campbell's crew the last few weeks. Gwen followed David around, received a monthly check in the mail, occasionally got texts from Jasper that almost seemed sincerely friendly, but otherwise there was nothing. And no one had bothered them since she'd started working, except for one unfortunate mugger too new to town to realize who was off-limits.

It was starting to feel a little too peaceful, making her skin crawl with the urge to _do_ something. But then she received a message from Jasper. 'can u n dav b at wash prk tmrw 2pm?'

Nothing made her feel older than trying to decipher her crew member's text-speak, but she managed, shooting back a quick 'sure. party?'

'BIG party! bring all ur fave toys :)'

Gwen glanced over at David, who was laying on the couch with a book. "Hey." He ignored her, turning the page and biting his lip anxiously. "David, you there?"

"Mmm."

This was the last time she'd ever encourage him to read, _Christ_. Rolling her eyes, she snagged a pillow and lightly tossed it in his direction. "Yo, _boss!"_

He jerked to attentiveness with a startled yelp, holding the novel in front of his face like he'd be protected from attack by George R. R. Martin. Flushing, he set the book aside, marking his place with absurd care, then looked up at her. "Sorry, did you say something?"

She chucked her phone to him. "We're going to the park tomorrow."

He snatched it out of the air one-handed and read over the texts, his eyebrows shooting up and his lips drawing into a thin line. "Huh. It's been a while." He glanced up at her. "Any idea what this is about? D-don't tell me!" he added hastily, "I just want to know if . . . if _you_ know."

Like she'd tell him even if she knew every detail; Gwen didn't want to think about what Campbell would do to her (or order done to her) if she ever ruined David's perfect crime virginity. But it didn't matter. "No fucking idea," she said, catching her phone as he threw it back and rereading the messages like there was some sort of clue in them. "They've kinda left me in the dark, too."

Oops. That wasn't supposed to sound so resentful.

David sat up and frowned, tilting his head to the side. "I'm sure it's nothing, Gwen."

"Yeah, no, totally." They might've decided she'd outlived her usefulness and were planning on killing her and having Jasper explode the remains, but other than _that_ . . . "Guess we'll see tomorrow, huh?"

He beamed. "Sure will!" After a second his eyes crept back to his book, and she could see the way he was weighing concern for her feelings with the desire to keep reading.

She decided to take pity on him and climbed to her feet, stretching. "I'm gonna go set up for tomorrow. Make sure everything's in working order for the 'party.'"

Her favorite thing about their new apartment, a small but surprisingly nice upper-story overlooking the lake, was the toy room. It was a small windowless room about twice the size of a walk-in closet lined floor-to-ceiling with weapons. Some were standard "stand your ground" fare, pistols and rifles and shotguns. Some things were a bit odder, more specialized: parachutes, body armor, AKs, grenades. AmmuNation's best — and since the entire east coast of that franchise was supplied by Campbell, that meant they were the crew's best, too.

Other things . . . couldn't be bought in stores. Couldn't be bought _anywhere_ , in fact. Things that were only known to a handful of people, things she'd been told to keep very secret. Things like rays that sent a jolt through the muscles that basically froze them on the spot (or at least made them move in slow-motion), a poison derived from milk that Jasper swore would leave victims too weak to stand, even what looked like a pair of x-ray goggles, like something from a comic book or cartoon.

It was beautiful.

Gwen ran her hand down the barrel of her sniper longingly; it had been too long since she'd been in a position to use it, now that all her jobs were done in such close quarters. With a wistful sigh she pulled away, turning to her knives, which lay in order of size on a plush velvet case (her Christmas bonus from Campbell), fingers tapping across the handles thoughtfully. The odds of this turning violent weren't high, or at least they usually wouldn't be. David was something of a symbol to the gangs of the city, to the point where his very presence discouraged violence. It was a known secret: if you were meeting with his men for any reason and Greenwood was nearby, _nothing_ bad would happen.

It was a promise and a warning.

* * *

"Is this really necessary?" David whined, wriggling his shoulders as he re-knotted his bandanna. "I feel so _bulky_."

Gwen stepped back, looking him up and down with a smirk. Despite complaining, the bulletproof vest added so little to his slight frame that no one would be able to tell. "David, if anything you look like a normal person instead of a stick figure. It's not noticeable, I swear to God."

"Fine." He pouted, scuffing his shoe on the carpet and looking away as she tugged her own body armor on. Despite insisting the precautions were ridiculous, she could tell they were getting to him; he kept tapping his fingers on his thigh, glancing up out the window at every noise.

To distract him from his nervousness, she said, "So I got the fun explodey stuff, what about you? We gonna have a picnic or what?"

"Yes!" He brightened immediately, hurrying over to the basket — an honest to god woven wicker basket; where did one even _buy_ those? — and peering inside as though to check none of it had escaped in the last five minutes. "I made sandwiches," he said, his head popping back up and turning toward her for approval. Gwen had to admit it was a little cute, how enthusiastic he could get about the dumbest things. Like she was a bodyguard to a puppy.

"Sounds good." She fluffed her hair and straightened her dress to make sure none of her "party supplies" were showing, grabbed her oversize purse (which had three smoke bombs and a couple C4, just in case. And a water bottle, which David insisted she keep filled at all times and harangued her about throughout the day), and turned to him. "Ready to go?"

"Uh, yeah! Sure." His eyes flickered to the door and then down at his feet, and she could read every fear on his face like his eyes were a marquee.

She put her hand on his shoulder, which was not proper protocol but she couldn't help, not when he looked so nervous. Besides, she reasoned, her job would be that much harder if Greenwood was jumping at shadows. "We'll be fine, David," she said, smiling internally as his shoulders relaxed — incrementally, but it was something. "Campbell wouldn't put you in danger."

So she didn't really believe that. What was important was that _he_ believed it.

David straightened with a sunny smile. "Gosh, you're right! I don't know what I was thinking. I'm sure it'll be wonderful!" He shook his head at himself with a quiet laugh.

She nodded, opening the door for him. "Worrying's my job, boss. Leave it to an expert."


	5. Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She really should've been more prepared.
> 
> At the end of the day, that's what she'd kick herself for.

"Well, Gwendolyn. It's a pleasure to see you again, though I wish it hadn't been under such  _ unusual  _ circumstances."

Gwen glanced over at Campbell, trying to figure out what reaction she was supposed to have. On the one hand, clearly they were meeting with the Woodscouts crew to work out some sort of deal, and she definitely didn't want to fuck that up for them. On the other hand, Edward Pikeman made her skin crawl, and he'd tried to kill her boss's son, so it seemed the rules of proper etiquette were a little all over the place. 

Campbell gave her a tiny nod without directly meeting her eyes, and she ducked her head, hoping the mini-bow made up for the fact that she couldn't muster up a smile. "It's, uh, good to see you, sir."

_ "Sir?" _ He quirked his eyebrow, smirking. "You've got her well-trained, Cameron. Most impressive. But you should watch this one — she's not very  _ reliable _ ."

She almost jumped as warm fingers closed over her own. David was ignoring the conversation between the two gang leaders, watching a family paddle around the lake with a detached, cheerful expression, but he squeezed her hand gently before settling back on his elbows and looking up at the clouds. That kind of affection had grown familiar at this point, and while Jasper had briefed them not to be too close with Pikeman around — he had a less-than-subtle interest in Gwen, and Campbell was hoping to exploit that if at all possible — it was more or less automatic for her body to orient itself closer to his, weeks of playacting creating pathways out of muscle memory.

Besides, it was sweet. She wasn't really used to sweet, and she hated to admit it was growing on her.

Campbell laughed, too loud and hearty to be genuine, and clapped Gwen on the back of the neck with an affectionate shake. "No worries, sport. I keep an eye on my people." And the warning to them both was so clear it chilled the air a few degrees, causing her to instinctively reach out for David's fingers again, because  _ god _ she didn't want to be here. Gunfights and explosions were one thing, but she wasn't prepared to deal with this kind of manipulative tiptoeing.

His hand met hers halfway, like he’d been doing the same thing, and though they both pulled back at a warning glare from Hook — or Quartermaster, as the rest of the crew called him — it was nice, just for a second, to know she wasn't the only one here in over her head.

Gwen had been specifically told by the Quartermaster  _ not  _ to pay too close attention to whatever Campbell and Pikeman were talking about, and she was more than willing to let their words wash over and away from her, focusing instead on the people dotting the park. For a Saturday in June it was surprisingly sparse, and she began to wonder if that was something one of the crew leaders had designed. It made people-watching easier, at least: a group of kids screaming their way up the shore, two twenty-somethings doing their best impression of every romantic scene from  _ The Notebook  _ at the same time, a dweeby-looking teenage girl fiddling with her slouchy shoulder bag, and a creepy-looking motherfucker who was observing the PDA couple with way too much interest.

She returned her gaze to the kids, noticing with disbelieving amusement that David was watching them as well, a small wistful smile on his face. "Miss them already?" she murmured; if they weren't supposed to be paying attention, they might as well  _ really  _ not pay attention. "It's literally just the weekend, David."

"I-I know!" He blushed, turning away from the lake and pretending to be very invested in something at the other end of the park (while steadfastly ignoring the couple making out). "I just . . . like my job." He shrugged, glancing over at her with a shrug. "They're nice kids. I know it sounds stupid, but they make my day better." Gwen would have to disagree with them being anything but horrible goblins, but she thought it was sweet how much he loved them.

Fuck, David didn't belong here. So why  _ were  _ they?

She eyed the creepy guy again. He'd pulled out something in a paper bag, but she was fairly certain it wasn't a weapon. Still . . . Drawing her knees up to her chest, she wrapped her arms around her legs and fiddled with the hem of her ankle-length skirt, looking around as casually as she could. Just a few inches from her twitchy fingers was a gun (hot pink and lime green, a gift from Jasper) that she really hoped she wouldn't have to use — a hell of a change from just a handful of months ago.Honestly, she'd gotten so used to the calm that she worried she was out of practice.

"It's a very  _ reasonable  _ request," Pikeman was saying, leaning in way too close to Campbell, "don't you think?"

"I think you should know better than to expect reasonable around here, Ed," Cameron replied with a grin, “especially considering you don’t have much room to make any type of request.” Of all of them, Campbell was the only one who seemed completely unperturbed by the weedy little twerp with the Hitler Youth bodyguards. 

Turning her mind away from that conversation, Gwen continued surveying the park. Cute kids, obnoxious couple, shy girl, creep . . .

Wait.

_ Fuck _ .

"Mr. Ca —" she began, but before she could get the words out there was a blur of motion and a  _ crack _ , and without thinking she twisted to the side and threw David to the ground, ignoring his startled yelp.

The ground behind them exploded, slicing the air where his head had been and splattering them with chunks of grass and dirt. The second the shot landed, Gwen grabbed David by his collar, hauling him upright and shoving him behind her while yanking free her ridiculous neon gun. There was something almost relaxing about staring down the barrel of that hideous weapon, a strange warm pleasure settling in her chest as she steadied her gun with her other hand and aimed at the bookish teenager's forehead.

"Dead or alive, sir?" she asked quickly, scrambling to her knees.

Of course, there were a lot of people she could've been talking to, which resulted in some confusion.

David gripped her hand blindly, face pale and spotted with specks of dirt like freckles drawn on with a marker. "D- _ dead?! _ You're not re-ally going to —"

"Well, it's not  _ my  _ decision, but I think  _ alive _ would make things more interesting, don't you?" Pikeman interrupted.

Campbell's voice cut through the panic, and she latched onto it gratefully. "Don't worry about her, Gretchen dear. Why don't you just focus on getting Davey home?"

She hadn't even finished saying "Yes, sir" before she snatched David’s arm, shoving him ahead of her as they sprinted to a relatively more protected clump of trees. Behind her she could hear the sounds of returning fire, and she knew the police would be there in minutes.

Which meant they had to be very very gone very very soon.

Unfortunately, neither of them had cars. Why would they, in a city where the traffic looked like it hadn't moved in the last twenty years? But taking the bus was virtually suicide. She yanked her phone out of her purse, putting her gun in her bag and frantically pounding the touch screen.

"Hi Gwen! Having fun yet?"

"Can you get us transportation?" she asked abruptly, grabbing David's wrist and tugging him toward the sidewalk. Maybe they could get lost in the crowd . . .

Jasper laughed. "Are you crazy? The police've already set up roadblocks around the park! You're getting away on foot, guys." There was a few seconds of what sounded like rapid typing, then, "Okay, looks like there's a holdup near Park and Westmore, cops haven't gotten there yet. If you can get out through there before the hole closes, you won't be stopped."

Park and Westmore . . . "Okay, we can do that. But, uh, we might have to borrow something once we're in the road." Some sort of bike, hopefully, something that could weave through traffic without attracting more attention than the average douchebag motorist. "That could get David in trouble."

"Don't worry, we'll make it work. That's what I'm here for!"

Gwen wasn't sure if that meant Campbell would pay off whoever they robbed or just kill them, but decided it was better not to know. "Got it."

"Enjoy the rest of the party!"

She hung up without a goodbye, then grabbed dragged David toward the park entrance closest to the intersection Jasper had pointed out, weaving through trees and keeping an eye out for anyone. Whoever that assassin was hadn't caught up to them yet (between Campbell's crew and the Woodscouts, that girl didn't have great odds), but for a job like this, with so much firepower in one location, she'd be crazy not to have brought reinforcements.

_ "Gwe — !"  _ David's hand ripped from hers, a bullet tearing through the tiny space between them and turning a nearby tree into wood chips. She whirled around to see another young woman — not the one who'd shot at them — holding a gun in her shaking hands. Her eyes widened when she took in Gwen's weapon, but she kept hers trained on David, who'd fallen to his knees and was pawing at his shirt, but seemed more bewildered than anything else.

"I promise you he's not worth it," Gwen said. She wasn't sure why she was even giving the girl a chance. Maybe David had softened her too much, but she wanted to at least  _ try _ to let the kid walk away; she couldn't be older than fifteen. "Don't be stupid, you can still get out of here."

"I . . ." David started to climb to his feet and the girl's eyes dropped to him, her finger tightening on the trigger. Before she could shoot Gwen fired, watching her stumble back with her hands over her stomach.

"Come  _ on!"  _ Gwen grabbed him by the wrist and took off running before he'd even regained his balance, and for a second she was worried he'd fall over and she'd end up dragging him along the ground by his face. But he caught himself, his long legs keeping pace even though she was (in theory) in much better shape for this kind of thing.

"Wh —" She wasn't sure if his difficulty speaking was due to breathlessness or shock, "what did you — that . . . girl —"

"She'll be fine. I didn't aim for anything lethal." That was a blatant lie, but the last thing she needed was David having a panic attack. They reached the entrance of the park and stumbled into the street, Gwen scanning the frozen traffic for anything they could use to get away. “Fuck fuck fuck —  _ there!” _ They weaved through the cars, nearly knocking over the bike idling on the other side of the street. “Hey, let us borrow this.”

The woman on the motorbike glanced between them, her plum-lipsticked mouth falling open in a small O. “Um . . .”

Gwen turned to David, a mess of embarrassment and nerves wringing his hands and a few seconds away from tugging his collar over his face, then to the owner of their escape vehicle. With a sigh — Jasper and Campbell  _ really _ better be able to smooth this over — she tugged her neon weapon out of her handbag. “Not a request, lady.”

The woman’s face paled and she scrambled off the bike, the first bit of good luck they’d had this entire afternoon. Unfortunately she also shrieked, “ _ Gun! _ She’s got a GUN!” at a volume that could shatter crystal, which suddenly made them the most noticeable people on the street. 

With a muttered curse Gwen hauled him onto the bike behind her; she supposed it was also lucky that David looked like a kidnapping victim, even as he scrambled to hold onto her waist and buried his face in her low pigtails.

“Come on come on _come_ _on_. . .” The bike started with a low hum, and she tried to remember everything her college boyfriend had taught her about riding motorcycles. They only wobbled slightly as she lurched onto the sidewalk, the impact jarring her teeth and making her wish she’d at least snagged the woman’s helmet for David.

But hindsight was a luxury to be enjoyed when not veering through stopped cars and terrified pedestrians.

David’s grip on her waist was almost painful, and despite the wind whipping past them she could hear his high-pitched, panicked breaths against the back of her neck. She wanted to tell him to calm down, if only so he’d stop cutting off her circulation, but there was no way she was going to waste a second on that, not when she could hear sirens growing closer. Silently praying he knew to hold on, she took a sharp right into an backstreet, nearly scraping them off against the ugly brick wall of the building looming above the small alley, and slammed the acceleration. She could see the traffic on Westmore at the other end of the alleyway, cars slowing but still creeping forward toward Park Street, and she sincerely hoped that meant the police hadn’t gotten there yet.

_ Come on, come on  _ . . . Gritting her teeth, she slowed the bike to avoid crashing headlong into a pickup truck and took the turn out of the side street much more cautiously than going into it. If only she didn’t care about plowing over motorists . . . but “crazed couple faces several hit-and-run charges” was the exact kind of headline they  _ didn’t _ want.

Unfortunately, that care (plus the few minutes it had taken to “borrow” a motorcycle) meant that the police were just arriving to set up roadblocks as they rounded the corner, sliding into a gap in the traffic as it slowed to a halt.

“What do we do now?” David whispered, still clinging to her even though the bike wasn’t moving. His voice shook a bit, as much as she could hear him trying to hide it.

“I . . .”  _ Fuck,  _ she wasn’t good at this. Well, she was -- getting out of places fast was one of the few talents she had -- but not without causing a lot more harm and attention than they could afford. Scanning the long row of townhouses as they slowly crawled by, she suddenly slammed on the brakes, jumping off the bike and grabbing David’s hand. “Come on, down here!”

“But --” He followed, wincing at the crash as the bike fell over. As they ducked into a small strip of grass between two of the houses, he lowered his voice and said, “what if someone’s home?”

He’d figured out her plan, she realized with a small glow of pride, dropping to her knees and fiddling with the doorknob on one of the townhouses’ side doors. “No one’s been home for a while,” she replied, scowling. Why was this lock so damn sturdy? “The mailbox out front was overflowing. If you ever go on vacation, cancel your fucking mail if you don’t want a break-in.”

David’s nervous frown cleared, replaced with a split-second smile. “That’s so clever, Gwen!”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I’m a real Rhodes Scholar.  _ Goddamn it! _ ” she hissed as her lockpick broke. She should’ve taken Jasper up on his offer to get her a better one . . .

“Do you need help?”

She did, although what was he going to do, chirp the door open? Still, the cars on Westmore had completely stopped, and it wasn’t like she was getting anywhere. Gwen took a step back and let David take her place, using the time to think through their options.

There . . . weren’t a lot, honestly.

Someone had to notice them careening into the road, and plenty of people had noticed the abandoned motorcycle in the middle of the street, if the honking was anything to go by. They weren’t visible from the road at the moment, but they had five minutes if they were lucky.

There was no other side to this little yard; it backed up into another house, so they’d have to go out the way they came . . . unless they found a fire escape and could make it to the roof, which presented some issues of its own but had more options than where they were standing --

_ Click.  _ David sprang to his feet as the door swung open, beaming at her like a kid showing off a magic trick. “There we go!”

Her muscles locked up temporarily, so that for a second all she could do was stare at him. Shaking herself out of her shock (and forcibly closing her mouth), she hauled him into the building, locking the door behind them and ushering them well out of view of the sidewalk. “Where the hell did you learn how to do  _ that?” _

He flushed. “Oh, the Quartermaster taught me! I was a real rascal of a kid, and, um, Mr. Campbell thought . . . to keep me safe . . .” 

She’d been hunting through the front closet, but turned around when he trailed off. His eyes grew distant, and she noticed with some worry that he was still breathing hard. “Mr. Greenwood?”

The formality snapped him back to her, and he gave her a slightly quavering smile. “Of course, Gwen! We’re still working, aren’t we? Not out of the woods yet!”

Oh,  _ fantastic _ . “You’ve been doing great, boss,” she said, hoping the praise would distract him from what felt distressingly familiar. 

She was no stranger to panic attacks.

But of all the fucking times . . .

The grin sharpened a little, grew more steady. “Really?” he asked, and the knot in her chest loosened at the genuine pleasure in his voice.

She tugged a brown leather jacket out of the closet and shrugged into it. (No one was going to see her looking unladylike, and this place was cold. Besides, she  _ liked  _ leather.) “You’ve gotta teach me how you picked that lock. If it wasn’t for you I’d probably still be stuck out there.”

Maybe she was laying it on a little thick, but it was worth it to see him inflate a tiny bit more, straightening his shoulders and tugging at his bandana with a quiet chuckle. “That’d be fun.”

The sirens had stopped, and she risked a glance outside to see that while traffic was still stopped, there wasn’t an angry mob outside their door. The bike was still lying forlornly in the middle of the road. “Looks like we’ll be here for a couple hours, until the roadblock clears.” She led him to the small living area in the back of the building; she  _ really  _ didn’t like those windows by the street. “Can I take a look?”

His brow furrowed. “A look? At — oh!” He reflexively put his hand on his chest, wincing. “Of course.” He took a seat on a small round ottoman, unbuttoning his shirt and folding it before setting it aside. He was starting to look pale again, his movements losing their clumsy confidence and slowing as his brain got tripped up on his thoughts.

Time for another distraction. “We really need to get headsets or something,” she growled, unceremoniously tugging his body armor over his head and kneeling down to take a better look at his injury. It wasn’t bad: a large, ugly bruise from the impact grazing his side, but it hadn’t broken the skin. She’d still bandage it up, if for no other reason than to feel useful. She snagged the first aid kit out of her purse and set it in his lap, hoping the responsibility of holding it for her would help ground him. “We should’ve had Jasp in our ears the whole time.”

It worked; he cocked his head to the side, handing her an elastic bandage. “Did Mr. Campbell not give you anything like that?”

She paused. “I really need to remember my headset.”

David laughed, the sound cutting off with a pained hiss as she pulled the wrap tight and tied it off.

The storm had cleared, at least for now.

She climbed to her feet, setting the remaining bandages on the counter. “We can loosen it later if it’s bugging you,” she said, gesturing with her chin to his side as she crossed over to the couch and settled down. “Compression’s good for bruises, so right now we’re compressing.”

“Thank you.” He was quiet as she rooted out her phone and texted Jasper: ‘couldn’t get out. laying low in a house on westmore.’ She paused, biting her lip and watching David stare at his hands. ‘we’re okay. i think.’

“Hey, boss?” His head jerked up, eyes wide and startled like a deer’s. Gwen grabbed her handbag and tugged  _ A Game of Thrones  _ out of it. (She’d turned her purse into a real Bag of Holding, in part because she wasn’t used to being allowed — let alone  _ expected  _ — to carry around something so cumbersome. The damn thing weighed like thirty pounds, but she’d be lying if she said it didn’t come in handy.) “Storytime?”

David brightened; storytime was his favorite part of the day at work. She was pretty sure he loved it more than the kids did. “Sure!”

With another quick glance out the window (no bike, but the traffic was still at a standstill), she settled back and listened to him read.

* * *

They had about ten minutes.

Ten minutes of quiet was a luxury in her line of work; if a mercenary complained about only having ten minutes to relax in the middle of a job, they’d be laughed at and then fired, and mayne shot for good measure. But she must’ve grown soft working for David, or just complacent.

Ten minutes of David’s soft lilting voice -- interrupted by occasional involuntary gasps as the book surprised him while he was reading -- before the peace was shattered with a spray of glass.

Brushing shards of the broken window off her dress with the sleeve of her jacket, she looked up to make sure David was all right; she paused on the way, her eyes landing on an innocent-looking plastic bar. For about half a second her mind whirred, trying to recognize why the damn thing looked so familiar. 

Slim, almost dumbbell shape, large round holes —

“Shit,  _ David —” _

The world exploded.

* * *

Gwen sat up before her head had stopped spinning, hauling herself to her feet by clinging to the wall and trying to ignore the way the room looked like a blazing tilt-a-whirl. There was no way to tell how long she’d been out. She was alone in the room (she suspected the explosion had kept everyone in the road at a safe distance), but she couldn’t have more than a few minutes before the police came in to see what the hell had just happened.

Fucking stun grenades. She’d never liked them, not even back in her mercenary work. Too loud, too unpredictable, way too likely to set things on fire. (Jasper, of course, loved them for all these reasons.)

She couldn’t hear anything except a high-pitched ringing, and she’d never felt quite so vulnerable, exposed even with walls close on all sides and a veil of smoke blocking her from the doors and windows. But she wasn’t hurt, not beyond a few scrapes and an ugly-looking burn across the top of her foot where the explosion must’ve shot some debris. All the flashbang had done was . . . well, flash and bang. 

Left her blind, deaf, and unable to walk, but in one piece.

“David?” 

Sound was returning, faint and bloody like she was underwater, but clearing steadily. First the sound of sirens, only distinguishable from the ringing by its slight modulation, then a babble of panicked voices.

Closer, with the authoritative blare of a megaphone: “Eight, seven, six . . .”

“David, are you here?” Gwen staggered forward, trying to keep her voice down (though with her muffled hearing it was hard to tell). The grenade had landed on the table between them, so he should’ve been knocked flat by the explosion as well. But as she dropped to her knees — half in an attempt to escape the thickening smoke and half because her balance still wasn’t entirely back — the only thing she found was  _ A Game of Thrones _ , the edges smoldering.

Okay, she wasn’t going to panic. She was a professional, even if the last several months had been less like a job and more . . . strange. He couldn’t have evaporated even in this extreme heat, so . . .

“Four, three —”

_ Fuck.  _ Bolting to her feet, Gwen scooped up the book without thinking and lurched for the front door, snagging a chair from the kitchen. She shoved it under the door handle just as the countdown reached “one,” stumbling back and banging her hip against the coffee table without taking her eyes off the door.

“You have had the opportunity to exit the building. Now, we’re coming in!” There was a muttered order and then a  _ thud  _ that made her teeth rattle, but the door held. She breathed a sigh of relief and raced up the stairs leading off from the living room. It was a small townhouse, and she’d bought herself a few seconds.

Which was all it took to realize that this place was spotless, expensive, and completely empty. Wherever David was, it wasn’t here.

Maybe he’d stumbled outside? She could picture it, could see him pressing that stupid bandana to his nose and mouth, delirious with smoke and still reeling from the shock, and staggering into the waiting arms of the police. Even the thought of him leaving her behind wasn’t too crazy; David could be thoughtless, selfish even. (She’d once lost him at the mall for nearly two hours and had eventually found him kneeling by the loading area, holding out a pretzel she didn’t see him buy to a pigeon -- oblivious to her increasingly-frantic calls because he didn’t like his ringtone, so he put it on silent.) The idiot wandering outside with his brain almost literally rattled in his skull wasn’t out of the question.

There was another thud, louder and accompanied by the creaking of agitated wood. She hurried downstairs with her mind whirring furiously. If the police hadn’t already realized there was a back entrance, they would soon, and with the shattered window they might not even have to force entry. The right side of the building shared a wall with an identical townhouse, and the left framed the alley — making it her best bet, assuming she could squeeze her way through one of these freakishly tiny windows that cities always insisted on installing. Like there could possibly be too much light with buildings looming in every direc —

_ Focus, Santos _ . She lifted the kitchen window as quietly as possible, praying the sound wouldn’t alert the police in the front or back of the building, and slipped outside. It took some careful maneuvering to get her jacket covering the worst of the grass- and burn-stains, but within minutes she’d  ducked out of the alley, doing her best to look like a rubbernecking passerby. As she sidled onto the sidewalk, letting herself get swallowed up by the crowd, the front door to the townhouse opened, releasing billowing smoke from the dying fire.

So the police had found the back door. Saved her a minute.

She stood on her tiptoes, scanning the assembled officers in search of a flash of gleaming auburn, but the only redhead she saw was a cop with pixie-short hair and a too-sharp gaze that raked over Gwen’s clothes and hair. (She quickly checked to make sure her gun wasn’t visible, realizing belatedly that she couldn’t have looked more suspicious if she was wearing an overcoat and wraparound shades.)

The officer nudged her partner, leaning in without taking her eyes off of her, and Gwen turned and shoved her way through the crowd, breaking into a sprint when she heard someone shout,  _ “Hey!” _

Despite her lack of recent running-for-her-life, chasing after small children must’ve kept her in decent shape, since she managed to slip free of the police without trouble. But she didn’t stagger to a halt until several blocks from the house, slumping against the brick wall of an ancient electronics store. She fumbled for her phone — maybe David had contacted her, or maybe Jasper had gotten word — and caught sight of something on her hand. Figuring it was dirt or soot or something, she moved to wipe it off and froze.

It was smeared from sweat and friction, but she could still read the note scrawled across her palm in cheap blue pen:

_ DEG _

_ 17 S LIL _

_ sorry _

Her brain, still choked with smoke and recovering from being stunned, processed the words in reverse order.

Sorry. Someone was sorry . . . Well, after the fucking day she’d been through  _ someone  _ should be.

17 s l i l. Slil? 17s l—

_ South Lilac _ . She’d had a few jobs there, not well-paying but with little competition. It wasn’t a nice part of town, the kind of neighborhood that was regularly in the news.

And the letters. They took the longest to permeate her foggy brain, and when they did her struggling hold on clarity was wiped out in cold white panic.

D E G.

_ David  _

_ Ethan _

_ Greenwood _

 

They had David.


End file.
